


Had we but world enough, and time

by amberfox17



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Non-Graphic Violence, References to Norse Mythology, Slow Build, Worldbuilding, angst that becomes fluff, working through complicated feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-10 16:44:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberfox17/pseuds/amberfox17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hate and love are two sides of the same coin, and only require time for one to turn to the other. And what do gods have, if not time? </p><p>Or, a story in three parts, of the past, present and future: how Lævatein was forged, taken and returned, how a relationship can be cracked, shattered and remade, and how Thor lost and found Loki time and time again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sharp as a sword the shadow came between us

_The Past_

It has been more than a week since Thor has seen his brother.

While it is not unusual for a day or two to pass without sight of Loki, if he is too ensconced in some new scroll or scheme to come to dinner, or if Thor rides out on some hunt or adventure without him, a week is unheard of. And it is not just Thor who has not seen him: Loki has been missing from Asgard for nine days now and the entire realm is in an uproar searching for him. Frigga has ridden out to the other worlds, to search and threaten and beg if any have seen or taken or hidden her second son. Odin and his ravens scour the spaces between the branches of Yggdrasil, looking and listening for some sign of the wandering prince in the secret and hidden paths. Heimdall stares and stares out into the abyss of space, his unblinking gaze raking all the known cosmos for Loki, but all to no avail, for Loki – or, perhaps, what has taken or sheltered him – has hidden himself from the Gatekeeper’s Sight. Thor is nominally in charge of holding Asgard while his parents frantically search for their lost son, but with nothing to actually do, he is instead pacing the Bifrost, shifting Mjolnir from one hand to the other, wishing that he had some enemy to fight or monster to slay, instead of this hopeless waiting and wondering.

He is not as close to his brother as they had been when they were boys, and he is often frustrated with Loki’s strange ways and unnatural fascinations, and so at first Thor had been merely annoyed at Loki’s selfishness in pursuing his solitary quests without regard to the worry of their parents, and perhaps irked by being excluded from whatever had so captured Loki’s interest. But as the days continued without word he had begun to feel fear, a deep, gnawing anxiety that bred as his parents’ concern became more and more open, their role as rulers of the Realm Eternal becoming secondary to their need to find their child. Loki is an experienced and capable fighter, and has often made his way alone through the realms and shadows, but he is still Thor’s little brother and the thought of him wounded or captured somewhere alone fills Thor with fury and dread. And after nine days, injuries or imprisonment are the best reasons he can imagine for Loki’s absence.

Thor paces and flexes his hands and tries not to think on anything except how he will take vengeance on whoever has hurt or held his brother. He is so consumed with fantasies of death and destruction that he almost misses Heimdall’s quiet exhalation.

“I have him, my prince.”

“Where?” Thor demands, grip tight on Mjolnir’s handle.

“Niflheim,” Heimdall replies, his eyes focused far beyond Thor’s impatient expression. “He lies at death’s door, at the foot of the great gates of Hela’s hall.”

“Does he live?” Thor asks, mouth dry.

“I do not know,” Heimdall answers, brow furrowing. “Hela’s dominion hovers at the edge of my gaze and he is hard to see. I know only that there he lies.”

It is rare indeed to hear Heimdall admit to any kind of limitation, but Thor’s response is immediate.

“Send me there,” he snaps, and Heimdall’s golden gaze shifts to him.

“Your mother and father -”

“Are worlds away, and it will take too long for the word to reach them,” Thor shouts, frantic. “I must go to him, before Hela claims him for her own.”

Heimdall regards him for a moment and then nods slowly, turning to lead Thor to the Bifrost’s great chamber.

“Be on your guard, my prince. Niflheim is no place for the unwary,” Heimdall warns as he hefts the great sword into place and the shining portal opens.

Thor nods, but his mind is focused solely on the thought of Loki alone on the edge of Helheim as he steps into the light. What could have possessed him to venture alone to the land of the dead?

After the roar of the Bifrost, the silence of Niflheim is even more eerie. The land of mist is a cold and lonesome place, devoid of light and colour. The stark and jagged rocks thrust out of the barren landscape into a grey and dismal sky as patches of fog and mist swirl in the intermittent breeze that carries the cloying scent of decay. It is not so much raining as simply saturated with damp, the bare rock and shifting scree underfoot slippery and the air close and chilling. It is as unpleasant a landscape as one could wish for, and surely there is nothing here of value or interest to a Prince of Asgard. Yet now there are two here, Thor thinks, but how is he to find Loki in this place?

“Loki!” he bellows, but the dank air seems to swallow his voice, and not even an echo answers him.

He whips Mjolnir in his hand until he can take to the sky: the rock and scree unfolds monotonously beneath him, but in the distance he can just make out through the mist the shape of a great hall encircled by a high wall. There is only one house in Niflheim and so it must be Helheim, the abode of the dead, and that means that Loki is somewhere close to it.

Thor soars towards the hall and as he approaches he realises that he has underestimated the size of it, for although it seems to be only one building and one wall, it is easily the size of Asgard. He has heard of Éljúðnir, Hela’s vast hall that could encompass a city, but the actual sight of it is deeply unsettling, for despite its huge size it is completely silent and seemingly lifeless. No smoke streams from its roof, and there seem to be no guards patrolling the wall – in fact, there seems to be no life at all in this grey world, no trees or animals or movement of any kind beyond the eddying mist.

But wait: emerging from the gloom are a pair of enormous doors set into Helheim’s wall. Taller than a jötunn and wide enough the welcome the greatest of armies, the Fallandaforad Gates are a mystery to all but their mistress, for though they seem to bar the way they are in fact flung open – at least to the living, who cannot help but find their intricate carvings endlessly fascinating as they seem to flicker and move at the edge of vision, beckoning and warning, alluring and terrifying. What they look like to the dead, none have ever returned to say. Thor turns his face from their temptation to look instead to their base, to where they mark the threshold between the living and the dead, between the cold certainty of Helheim and the nebulous mist of Niflheim.

The gates of death are ever open, but at their foot, and still on this side of the wall, is a sudden splash of colour, a figure slumped on a green cloak. Loki.

Thor lands badly in his haste, kicking up a great spray of pebbles and dirt. The noise is shockingly loud and sure to attract the attention of anything that does lurk within Éljúðnir, but he cares not as he reaches Loki’s prone form. Loki is lying on his back, his eyes and mouth closed, gripping something long and bulky tightly in his hands, but what terrifies Thor is the blood all around him, spattering his clothes, the cloak and the ground. One of Loki’s daggers lies at his side, soaked in blood, but as Thor gingerly examines him he only finds deep slashes to his brother’s hands and a raw and bleeding stab wound to his chest where the leather and fabric has been raggedly cut away to expose the fragile skin and bone over his heart.

Loki is still, so frighteningly still, but when Thor bends over him he can feel the lightest of breaths on his cheek and when he places his hand around Loki’s neck he feels a faint pulse beating. Loki’s skin is pale and cold, but he lives. He lives.

Thor exhales the breath he had not realised he had been holding. He smoothes Loki’s hair reflexively, needing to keep his hand on his brother, as if he might vanish away without Thor’s touch to keep him here. He needs to think, to plan, but all he can think of in this moment is that he had almost lost Loki, that for a few brief heartbeats he had been sure he was too late, that Loki had died here, lost and alone and –

It is not something he had ever thought of before, what it would be like to lose Loki. They are young and strong and will live until the breaking of the worlds: this is a truth he has always held in his heart, for all he knows they are not truly immortal. Every battle, every fight held only joy, for how could either of them possibly fall, how could they ever know defeat? Yet here Loki lies in his own blood and there is a sick, hollow ache in Thor’s heart he has never felt, a terror that leaches away the relief that he should be feeling.

There has been a strange tension between him and Loki of late, something new and unexpected crackling between them, leading to endless arguments and fights as they try to adapt to it. Thor does not have the words to understand or describe it, but he feels it, something growing and testing the limits of their brotherhood, and he resents it, resents the way that Loki looks at him sometimes, calculating and sly, and he has grown to hate the way that Loki needles at him, provoking him to rage and fury and then slinking off smiling to himself. Thor finds his younger brother fey and oddly disturbing these days, and has often wished for Loki to turn from his books and magics and spiteful pranks and to make more of an effort to be – well, to be more like Thor and his friends, to be a warrior Thor can be proud of, instead of the cunning mage he is proving to be. Perhaps if Loki were more like himself he would feel less unsettled when he feels Loki’s eyes on him, always considering, although Thor cannot fathom _what_ is being considered.

Yet for all their spats and sibling rivalries, he loves his brother deeply, and he has never imagined a future without Loki at his side. Yet it could happen, with terrifying ease, and now he knows how that would feel, what it would be like to kneel by Loki’s body with his heart in his mouth. What is he to do with this new and unwanted knowledge?

He shakes his head. This is no time or place for such thoughts. He must get Loki home, back to Asgard’s safety and warmth, where he can be healed and scolded in equal measure. But how to do it? There are no obvious injuries that he can see, but he cannot fly while carrying an unconscious Loki, and in the swirling mist he does not know which way to go on foot.

His mother and father must be on their way. If only he can move Loki away from this dangerous threshold, away from the blood and proximity to death, then they can afford to wait for their parents, and for the light of the Bifrost to act as a beacon. With that in mind, it matters little which direction they take, as long as it is away from Helheim.

Decision made, Thor looks over Loki with a more practical eye. Perhaps he should wrap Loki in the cloak, for although the cuts seemed to have stopped bleeding, Loki remains cold. He cannot see any other belongings aside from the dagger and the bundle clutched between Loki’s hands. Thor looks at the bundle more closely: judging by the size and shape it must be a sword, wrapped clumsily in what looks like a wolfskin. He reaches to take it and attach it to his own belt, for it will prevent him from easily carrying Loki.

The moment his hand touches the bundle it shudders like a living thing and Loki’s body convulses, his eyes flying open as he screams.

Thor tries to grab him, to help him, but Loki kicks out at him, clawing at the wolfskin until it fall away to reveal a sword that is covered in some kind of scaled skin. Thor backs away, palms up, but Loki does not even look at him, utterly fixated on the strange weapon in his hands. The thing quivers at Loki’s touch, and Loki whispers to it softly, running his fingers along the length of the blade of up to the pommel. It is a disturbing sight.

“Loki,” Thor says softly, for his brother’s face is lined with pain and his eyes are fever-bright as he strokes the snake-like sword. “Brother, can you hear me?”

Loki ignores him, crooning gently to the sword which is shuddering in his grasp, the skin being to crumble and flake away under Loki’s fingers. Slowly, the thing’s true shape is revealed: a golden sword, the blade inscribed with runes and a strange egg-shaped gem set into the crossguard. It is the gem that holds Loki’s gaze, and even from where he stands Thor can see a ribbon of green flame coiling and uncoiling within the crystal, its rhythmic pulsating like a heartbeat. It is beautiful, and clearly no ordinary weapon, but Thor instinctively distrusts it, and when he puts his hand on Mjolnir he can feel her displeasure and her desire to strike at it.

Loki smiles and rests his head against the gem. He looks sick and wan in the faint light the sword’s gem emits and Thor edges a little closer.

“Loki,” he says, more loudly this time. “Loki, it is time to go home.”

Loki raises his head and finally his eyes meet Thor’s.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, voice raspy. “Why did you follow me?”

“You have been gone for nine days,” Thor says, anxiety and irritation warring within him. “Everyone has been looking for you. We thought the worst – I thought -”

“I am well, as you can see,” Loki cuts him off as he staggers to his feet, using the sword to prop himself up as he sways.

“You are not _well_ ,” Thor growls, moving forward until he can grab Loki by the shoulder. The sword makes a peculiar whining noise as he touches Loki and he can feel Mjolnir rumble in response. “What have you been doing here? What is that – that thing?”

“It is no concern of yours,” Loki snaps and Thor wants to slap him, for of course it is his concern, it is their whole family’s concern, for whatever the sword is, it is clearly the reason that Loki has been missing for so long and is connected to his wounds and the fragile state he has been reduced to.

“We must go,” he snarls instead, for if anything the situation has gone from bad to worse, with a struggling Loki and a cursed weapon simply begging for Garm or Hela’s attention. Loki’s mouth is set in a thin line but he does not protest as Thor pulls him away from the gates. Once he has put himself between Loki and the great doors he bundles up the cloak, the wolfskin and the dagger, doing what he can to mop up the spilt blood. He knows almost nothing of magic, but to forge a blade at death’s door can only invite calamity, and the less of Loki that is left behind the better.

With the bundle in one hand and the other firmly round Loki’s waist he half-leads, half-drags Loki away from Helheim, striking out blindly into the fog and the mist, keeping his gaze up to look for the blinding light of the Bifrost. Heimdall must be able to see them and so Odin and Frigga must be close at hand. He keeps moving until he finds an outcrop flat enough for them to ascend and there they stop to wait.

Loki is breathing hard, his eyes glassy, and Thor curses himself for he has nothing to offer, no water, no food and not even a swift return home. His only thought had been to get to Loki, but now they are paying the price for his lack of planning. Loki slumps to the ground, the sword clattering as he drops it. Thor sits beside him, his anger subsiding at how weak Loki seems. He has little to offer but himself and so he pulls Loki into a hug, holding his brother close even as he squirms and try to pull away.

“Enough, Thor, I am not a child,” Loki hisses and Thor reluctantly lets him go. Loki settles himself by the sword, placing one hand on the gem. Thor watches him and does not try to hide the disquiet he feels at the sight of his battered brother’s love for the glittering sword.

Loki sighs dramatically. “I take it you do not appreciate my latest work?”

“It is an evil thing,” Thor replies, frowning. Loki looks sick and seems unable to leave the sword alone. This is not how he had thought he would find his brother, and he seems to be doing a poor job of rescuing him.

“She is a powerful weapon,” Loki corrects instantly, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the gem, the green fire within drawn to where his skin meets the crystal.

“She?”

“She lives, just as Mjolnir does,” Loki says proudly. “Her name is Lævatein, and she is my greatest achievement.”

“What have you done?” Thor asks, heart heavy with foreboding. Mjolnir has a will and a heart of her own, yes, and she is bound to him in ways he is only beginning to understand. But she was crafted in the heart of a dying star by master smiths and enchanted by the Allfather himself; the gem which seems to hum at Loki’s touch is a different thing entirely, for it is the gem that seems the source of the sword’s strange power, not the rune-inscribed blade.

“I have created a weapon that will fit only to my hand,” Loki says defiantly. “I have taken a dwarven blade and remade it with my blood and hands and soul. I have brought forth a new force and power in the worlds.”

“Why would you do such a thing?” Thor demands, horrified, for this is black magic, blood magic, and such things always have a heavy price and bear a terrible fate.

“We cannot all simply be given the weapon we desire,” Loki snarls and Thor flinches, for it is true that he neither won nor forged Mjolnir, but was instead presented to the great hammer by Odin when he came of age.

“Mjolnir chose me because I was the only one worthy of her,” he answers after a moment and sees the barb hit home. Loki cannot lift the hammer, despite all his trying, and Thor is well aware how much it rankles him.

“Well, I am the only one worthy of Lævatein,” Loki replies furiously, gesturing to the golden sword. “She is mine, and no other may wield her.”

“You risked death simply to have a weapon to match mine?” Thor asks incredulously. “Father would have given you an enchanted sword if you had only asked.”

“And why should I have to ask?” Loki spits, trembling with anger. “Why should I be satisfied with whatever dusty relic he sees fit to part with, when you were granted more power than you could possibly understand? No, Thor, I will not accept a second-rate gift, not when I can take what I want myself.”

“You are a selfish brat,” Thor shouts, slamming his fist into the ground as his temper explodes. “For nine days we have searched for you, worried beyond imagining that you had been hurt, or taken, or killed. But no, you were holed up here, wasting your time on dark magic and a cursed sword while we thought you lost. And all you care about is your pride and your petty jealousy -”

Loki screams and throws himself at Thor, raining blows and sharp jabs down on him with his fists, too angry to reach for his daggers or the golden sword. Thor roars back, cuffing his brother across the head as hard as he can before he can think about what he is doing. Loki shudders under the blow and collapses, and Thor feels sick as he remembers that Loki is in no condition to fight.

“Loki,” he says, suddenly ashamed, “brother, I am sorry, I did not mean it...” He reaches for Loki, to help him to a sitting position, but as he reaches over Loki uncoils and strikes hard and fast, jabbing at Thor’s throat and eyes. Thor is momentarily blinded and cannot draw a breath; he slumps, wheezing and wiping at his eyes. When he recovers Loki is sitting opposite him, clutching Lævatein, his face a picture of disdain.

“Apology accepted,” he sniffs and Thor is very, very close to hitting him again, but he can see the fine tremors in Loki’s hands that mean he is much closer to collapse than he is willing to admit. This fight and its consequences must wait; he came here to save Loki, not to make his wounds worse, and although he is angry with Loki’s words and actions, in truth he is still worried and wants more than anything to have his brother whole and healthy again.

“I do not wish to argue,” Thor says, as calmly as he can. “You have lost a lot of blood and are in need of care. Come here, so I can share my cloak with you.”

“I do not need your help,” Loki says irritably, despite all evidence to the contrary. “And I am in no mood to indulge your ridiculous sentiment.”

“Please,” Thor says, ignoring Loki’s scowl and his own flash of impatience. His brother responds best when he feels needed, and Thor is willing to indulge him to keep him still and safe. “Let me hold you while we wait. I feared I had lost you and missed you dearly.”

“Did you,” Loki says flatly, but this time he does not resist when Thor embraces him, settling his brother’s weight against his chest. They used to hold each frequently, as children and as youths, but once they became men Loki started pulling away, sliding out of Thor’s grasp and shuddering when he touched him. It hurt Thor deeply, but he could not stop, for touch is how he shows his affection, and for all Loki’s skittishness, once he was held he would always calm and stay, leaning into Thor for rare moments of contentment. Having Loki in his arms now stills the unsettled feeling within him, but his brother is still clutching the damned sword like a lifeline, casting a shadow over their fragile peace.

They sit like that for what feels like a long time, until at last the riotous colour of the rainbow bridge pierces through the mist and Frigga rushes to them, weeping in joy as she gathers Loki to her. Her face drains of colour when she sees the sword he will not relinquish, but she makes no comment on it, and with the help of the Einherjar Loki is soon carried to the Bifrost site and they are gathered up in its brilliance.

Odin waits for them in Asgard and he gruffly pulls them both into a tight embrace. Thor soon pulls away, embarrassed, but Loki remains as Odin speaks to him in a low, urgent voice. Whatever he says does not seem to please Loki much, but he nods whenever Odin pauses, uncharacteristically solemn in the face of one of their father’s scoldings.

“This can wait,” Frigga says sharply, stepping in and placing a hand on Loki’s shoulder. “He needs healing.” She reaches out for the sword but stops before she touches it. “And _that_ would be better if it were less conspicuous,” she says to Loki, who only nods again, as if he has lost the power the speech. He shifts his grip, closing one hand around the blade itself, just below the gem, and letting the other hover above the pommel. He takes a deep and closes his eyes: the sword makes a sudden chattering sound, like a flock of birds, as the gem glows and then, too fast for Thor to follow, it shimmers with golden light and suddenly is not a sword at all, but a short gold sceptre, barely the length of Loki’s forearm, topped with the gem and inscribed with runes.

He can hear the nearby Einherjar’s dismayed murmurs at this display of sorcery and he cannot blame them, for he is certain now that the sword – the sceptre – the thing is cursed, and he wishes his parents would take it from Loki and hurl it into the starry abyss.

Instead, Odin only sighs, looking suddenly weary as Frigga leads Loki away, the sceptre still clutched firmly in his hands.

“Father -” he begins, for he has so many unanswered questions, but Odin waves a hand in dismissal and he falls silent.

“Be grateful that your brother has returned at all,” the Allfather says, his words slow and heavy. “For there are few who could work such magic for nine days at Helheim’s gates without losing themselves entirely.”

Thor does not understand, but Odin is staring out at the stars, his shoulders slumped and his gaze far away. His father is clearly in no mood for further talk, so Thor begins the long walk back to the palace, wondering why his heart is so heavy. He has what he had hoped for these long days past: Loki is home, safe and soon to be healed. Yet the relief is clouded by anger, frustration and fear, for although Loki is found, Thor feels his brother is still lost, somehow, and still moving slowly but surely away from the safety of Thor’s grasp, and he does not know how to stop it.

But there is still time, he consoles himself. There is always time, and once Loki is well he will make the time to talk to his brother, to rebuild the old easy companionship that has come under such strain of late. For he loves Loki and he does not doubt that Loki loves him too, and will do so through all the ages of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Lævatein](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/L%C3%A6vateinn) needs more love in fandom: all that is known about it is a single reference in the Poetic Edda. It is is a weapon, perhaps a sword and perhaps a magic staff, forged or found by Loki at Hel's doors. In _Gylfaginning_ , part of the Prose Edda, Snorri Sturluson says that Hel's vast hall is surrounded by walls and gates, and is called Éljúðnir, which means 'damp with sleet or rain' Fallandaforad is the threshold of the hall, meaning 'fall to peril' and is a great pit in disguise.


	2. To advance in this or any world we must endure ordeal by fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Muspelheim, Lævatein's true power and love turned to hate.

_The Present_

It has been more than a year since Thor has seen his brother.

An absence of this length can only mean Loki is planning something truly terrible, and Thor does not mean to sit and wait for Loki to strike. He leaves Midgard in the capable hands of his mortal friends and returns to Asgard, where he is best placed to move the moment Loki reveals himself to Heimdall. He hopes that Loki’s scheme is fixated, yet again, on himself rather than the mortals he loves, so that his absence might keep Midgard safe. There are duties enough in Asgard to keep him busy, but he makes the time to scour through what is left from Loki’s last prison, to read the books Loki had and try to decipher his scribbled notes. There is little left undamaged from where Loki’s ice and magic shattered the walls and wards in his latest escape, but Thor perseveres in trying to understand his brother’s twisted thoughts.

He is puzzling over the cryptic words Loki has inscribed next to an otherwise unremarkable passage when the word comes: Loki is in Muspelheim, at the home of Sinmara, lover of Surtur and mother of the Fire Demons. Sinmara and the Fire Demons would make formidable allies, but Thor’s true fear is Loki’s proximity to Surtur, the Great Destroyer. Odin defeated and bound the great Fire Giant eons ago, but Surtur is an _eldjotnar_ , one of the first beings to walk the Nine Realms, and he is too strong and too terrible for even Odin to keep chained indefinitely. Sinmara cares nothing for the will or whims of other realms, but if through her Loki brokers an alliance with Surtur…the worlds would burn in the fire of Loki’s madness and Surtur’s fury and not even the might of Asgard and the ingenuity of Midgard could stand against them. Is Loki so far from reason he would hasten the arrival of Ragnarok just for the pleasure of seeing Thor fall?

Thor does not know, and this is what terrifies him the most: he does not know how deep Loki’s hate runs, nor what his once-brother is capable of. They have fallen into a cycle of fury and hate, as Loki strikes at Thor, Thor pleads and threatens and strikes back, Loki falls and is captured, only to escape and vanish once again until he comes snarling back, dealing out death and destruction calculated to rouse Thor against him. Thor does not understand it and clings to the hope that somewhere in the fearsome enemy Loki has become is the shadow of the brother he loves and cannot let go. There must be a way to bring his Loki back, to undo the damage done to their trust and love, but with each fresh conflict, each new injury and old insult he feels a little of his faith slipping away.

This time is no different. It is Thor’ first visit to the Realm of Fire and the moment the Bifrost leaves him he is gasping, for Muspelheim is blisteringly hot, the air like the heat from a furnace. It is a world of sand and rock so melted it has become like glass, of shimmering illusion and bright jewels glinting under the vast, low sun that skims over the horizon but never sets. It is an old world, the first world, and has remained unchanged for eons. Nothing grows, nothing lives here apart from Surtur, Sinmara and their children, the fire demons. Thor has heard that the fire demons do not eat or drink but instead feed on the sun’s light, and trudging through this hostile landscape he can believe it, for he sees nothing but the jewelled rock and blistering sand all around him.

Once, all those who entered this harsh realm would have been faced with Surtur and his immense sword, for the Lord of Fire did not tolerate strangers in his domain. Since Odin bound him in the Sea of Eternal Day, and took the sword Twilight to Niflheim’s Sea of Eternal Night, Muspelheim has been without a gatekeeper. Yet even undefended as its borders are, few dare come here, not even to try and take the glittering gemstones heaped in piles on the ground. The Sons of Muspel are no more welcoming than their father, but it is in truth the nature of Muspelheim itself that keeps others away.

Thor is sweltering in the intense heat. He was drenched in sweat within moments of arriving in this unforgiving climate, and now he has walked for a nearly an hour his chest is heaving and his throat dry. It is brutal, even for an Asgardian; his Midgardian allies would simply not survive here without some kind of technological or magical intervention. He is sorely tempted to have Mjolnir call a storm to drench the desert with rain, but in truth he does not know if she could in this arid realm, and moreover, such an act would not endear him to Sinmara or the fire demons he is sure are tracking his progress through their land. There is at least a road of some sort, a wide and dusty path that snakes through the desert, its edges marked with weathered stone. There is only one house in Muspelheim and this is the road to it.

Okolnir stands on the shore of the Sea of Eternal Day. Sinmara’s hall is a glittering beacon even in this shimmering land, the gold and gem-encrusted walls blinding in their intensity. The walls are high by Asgardian standards, but only reach half the height of the hall itself: they are a statement of territory, not a defensive structure. The hall is pure white stone, carved into an intricate latticework, and it sighs restlessly as the desert winds whip through its arched windows and doors. The intricate columns and screens are striking, but the oddest feature to Thor’s eyes is the complete lack of roof: there is no shade, no shelter in this house, and no respite from the burning sun.

Thor cannot help but think that Loki must hate it here. Thor remembers that Loki always hated the heat of high summer, his pale skin burning easily, growing irritable and listless on the hottest of days, perhaps due to his Frost Giant heritage, or perhaps simply because he hated to be sticky and dirty.

The heat does not seem to be bothering him now.

Loki is waiting for him just within Okolnir’s gates, looking cool and collected despite wearing his customary green and gold armour, a tall staff in his hands. It has been an age since Thor dragged him away from where he had split his own lifeblood at death’s gates but he would recognise the deadly beauty of Lævatein anywhere. Like Loki, she has shifted shapes over the years, and is now a great staff taller than Loki himself, the gem at the top flanked by two wickedly curving blades that remind Thor of the horns of Loki’s helm. Odin had sealed the sceptre away after Loki fell, in a great iron chest with nine locks, and sent it away from Asgard to be kept secret and safe. Thor had never dreamed that it might be in Sinmara’s hall, so close to where their great enemy, Surtur, was bound, but clearly Loki had.

And it can only be Sinmara herself that is standing beside him: Thor has never met her before, but she is unmistakable. Sinmara is an _eldjotnar_ , and stands at least twenty feet tall, dwarfing both Thor and Loki. The Mother of Demons is a very real physical threat, with powerful muscles, huge forward curling horns, like a ram’s, and a thick curling tail tipped with a wicked arrow-head barb. But she is also voluptuous, with broad hips and heavy breasts, polished skin, like obsidian, and living fire ripples from her head and whispers between her legs. She is beautiful and she is terrifying.

Thor approaches cautiously, his hand on Mjolnir’s handle but for the moment keeping her at his belt. His concerns had been focused on Surtur but now he sees Sinmara in the flesh he realises it would be wise not to provoke her. He opens his mouth to greet her properly, but before he can speak Loki steps forward, calm shattering as his face twists in anger.

“Come to drag me back to Asgard yet again?” Loki sneers; the green flame within Lævatein ripples with his words. “I’m beginning to think you enjoy forcing me into handcuffs and a gag.”

“I do not _enjoy_ hurting you,” Thor replies angrily. “But as long as you insist on being a danger to those I love -”

“Your precious mortals, you mean?” Loki raises one hand to his brow and theatrically scans the horizon. “I see no mortals here, Thor. I am only visiting an old friend; it is _you_ who has come to start a fight with _me_.”

“I do not want to fight you,” Thor growls, “but I cannot trust you. I know you are planning something wicked and so I must stop you.”

“ _Must_ you?” Loki snarls back, lowering the head of the staff to point it at Thor’s chest. “And what makes you so certain that you _can_ stop me, now that Lævatein is returned to me?”

“Because I must,” Thor repeats, loosening Mjolnir from his belt.

“You will not do battle in _my_ house,” Sinmara says suddenly, her deep voice even and calm, as if it is a statement of fact rather than a threat, but Thor knows a warning when he hears one. He has no desire to fight both Loki and Sinmara and so he backs off, taking up position just outside the boundaries of her home, watching intently as Loki turns to give a half-bow and kiss her enormous hand.

Is this how Loki persuaded her to betray the Allfather’s trust and release the nine locks on the unbreakable chest? Thor wonders, his chest tight with anger. It would not be the first time Loki has bargained in the bedchamber, nor would an elder jötunn of Muspelheim be the strangest lover he has taken since he fell from Asgard and all sense. Thor does not want to think on it, but he cannot help but stare at the playful smirk on Loki’s face as he whispers to Sinmara, at the way he brushes his hand over her skin, heedless of the flickering flames.

He is angry, so angry, as he always seems to be when he finds Loki these days, but he is not quite sure why. He means, every time, to try and talk to his once-brother, to find come kind of peace between them, but whenever he sees Loki, and has to witness yet another betrayal, yet another enemy of Asgard being gifted with Loki’s charm and attention when he receives nothing but fury and spite, he finds himself overtaken by anger and it always ends with them coming to blows.

Sinmara watches them with open interest as Loki walks away from her and towards Thor, taking up a mirroring position beside Okolnir’s glittering walls.

“Loki, please,” Thor starts to say, trying to keep his temper in check, for as yet, Loki has done no new wrong, which makes this the best opportunity he has had in years for them to talk freely.

But Loki is not interested in talking. Without warning he attacks, sweeping Lævatein towards Thor in a wide arc, forcing Thor to jump back or risk being struck by the sharp horns. Loki is laughing, his face contorted with savage glee as he wields his golden staff like an extension of himself, alternating jabbing the wicked points at Thor’s face and lashing at Thor with spells of fire and ice until he staggers back and falls to his knees.

“Loki, stop!” he bellows, but Loki has long since ceased listening to Thor’s cries. He plants the staff directly before him and closes both hands just beneath the gem. He closes his eyes and takes one deep breath. Thor feels more than hears Lævatein respond with a deep resonant throbbing as the ground between them shudders and ripples, the sand and stone flowing towards Loki like a river.

Loki is using the staff as a focus for his magic, Thor realises, and where Mjolnir calls and controls the lightning, Lævatein calls and controls the whole world around her. Her power is pure destructive force, and all around Loki the sand and stone of Muspelheim is shifting and transforming into a whirlwind of power and elemental chaos, the landscape breaking apart and swirling around him, waiting to be unleashed.

There is little on Muspelheim to destroy and reform into an attack against him, but if Loki were to bring the staff to Midgard…the destruction wrought by the Chitauri would seem small indeed compared to this. Thor imagines the buildings and structures of Earth’s great cities called and torn apart by Loki’s magic, the steel and stone and rubble hurled outwards, a great wave of destruction sweeping over the helpless inhabitants. Mjolnir whines in his hand, desperate to strike, and the rage in his heart rises to answer her call.

“I will not let you do this,” he snarls, hefting the great hammer as he rises to his feet, and he means it, for the staff is a terrible thing indeed, giving Loki power on a scale hitherto unimaginable. He still does not know exactly what Loki did at death’s doors so long ago, what of himself went into the weapon and what else he brought into it. But this is the first time he has seen its power unleashed, and it must also be the last.

He had come alone, in the hope that this time Loki might listen to his pleas and profession of love, that this time might be different to the thousands of other times he has faced Loki in battle. But it is not, and he feels the weight of time pressing down on him. How long can he continue to try and save someone who wants only to destroy him?

Loki’s eyes snap open and Thor moves on pure instinct.

He leaps into the air, Mjolnir raised high and hurls himself and the hammer at Loki, battering through the swirling wreckage. The shards of melted glass and fractured jewels slash at his unprotected hands and face but he ignores the biting pain and focuses entirely on reaching Loki.

As he reaches him, Loki does not try to slip away but instead pulls Lævatein into a blocking position. The break in his focus is enough for the debris to fall abruptly back to the ground as Mjolnir slams into the staff’s midpoint. Thor had expected the slim weapon to snap but it is clearly more than it seems, for it absorbs the impact without damage, although the combined weight of the hammer and Thor is enough to send Loki sprawling in the dust.

Thor lands heavily on top of him and immediately tries to wrench the staff out of Loki’s hands. He plants Mjolnir firmly on Loki’s chest, trapping him in place, and grabs Lævatein. The staff squirms and howls in his grasp and the shock is enough that Thor almost lets go, but he has fought stranger foes than a living weapon and so instead he tightens his grip and pulls. Loki is snarling beneath him, hanging onto to the staff with a white-knuckled grip, but Thor has always been the stronger and eventually he manages to tug Lævatein away.

Out of Loki’s hands it immediately reverts to the small sceptre shape Thor had last seen in it, the metal contracting and shuddering as it shrinks. It is an immensely unpleasant sensation and Thor flings it aside, watching it skid across the dusty road and out of Loki’s reach. Loki screams in frustration and suddenly he has a pair of wicked daggers in his hands. He strikes at Thor’s eyes, at his throat, and Thor jerks back, feeling the blood trickling down his face were the dagger has nicked his cheek as he moved. He roars in fury and knocks Mjolnir to the side so he can take Loki in his own hands, forcing him to drop the daggers. They wrestle furiously, without strategy or elegance, clawing and hitting and rolling in a grotesque parody of their boyhood squabbles.

It cannot last, not in this climate; Thor is tiring fast and surely Loki is too. He resorts to old tactics, honed back when Thor’s first teenage growth spurt at last made him bigger than his little brother, and he simply flattens himself out on top of Loki, wrapping his arms and legs around him. Loki bucks and writhes beneath him but Thor holds him down, keeping him pinned with his own bulk until Loki at last stops thrashing.

After a long pause Thor sits up and reaches for Mjolnir with one hand, keeping the other pressed flat on Loki’s chest to impress on him the futility of resistance. He is panting heavily and so now is Loki, the oppressive heat making this short skirmish one of the most physically exhausting fights they have ever had.

He raises the hammer and looks Loki in the eye.

“Will you kill me now, _brother_?” Loki asks. “Can you do it at last?”

Thor stares at him and feels the truth in his bones, in his soul.

“No,” he admits brokenly, for he cannot, and he lets Mjolnir fall from his grip to land heavily in the sand. Loki laughs and laughs, a high, hysterical sound that echoes around the vast desert.

“Sentiment,” he cackles and Thor can only nod. It would be so much simpler and, perhaps, so much better for them both if he could forget this pretence of kinship, could see Loki only as an enemy and end this circling conflict with a mighty blow.

But he cannot. He will not. He loves Loki, and no matter what his crazed brother does to him he cannot stop loving him. He can fight back, hurt him, punish him, and maybe in the heat of an intense battle he would inflict such damage that it could not be undone. But to heft his hammer and bring it down solely to end Loki’s life? No, this he cannot do.

“You are my brother,” he says, his voice slow with exhaustion. “I miss you still.”

“You are a fool,” Loki hisses, and this much is predictable: another dagger is in his hand and then in Thor’s stomach, expertly inserted into the weak points of his armour, a stinging, painful wound but not a fatal one. He slumps and Loki writhes under him, slipping away and vanishing into the dust without a word more.

Thor sits under the blazing sun and waits for the tears to come. But they do not, and he must rise, must find and rescue Lævatein from the dust and take it back to Asgard, for this is too easy and surely Loki will come for the weapon again, come against Thor once more.

He is so tired.

But he has his duty and so he does rise, does lift the cursed sceptre from the sand and hold it tight, despite its angry chattering and Mjolnir’s answering hum as he returns the hammer to his hip. As he turns to return to the Bifrost site he realises that Sinmara is still standing at the gate. She had watched the entire sorry battle – if such a fight can be called a battle.

“I am sorry to have brought discord to your home,” Thor says politely, remembering with a wince that he is a Prince of Asgard and she the ruler of this realm.

“I expected some strife when I agreed to keep Lævatein safe,” Sinmara replies, perfectly still, except for the flames that flicker over her body. “Although I did not expect to see Thor Odinson brawling in the dirt like a child.”

“I would not have had to brawl with Loki if you had not broken your oath to the Allfather,” Thor snaps back, pride stung.

Sinmara regards him impassively. “I swore to keep Lævatein safe from all those who would seek to do harm with it,” she replies. “I have kept my word.”

“You do not consider this harm?” Thor snarls, flinging his hand out to indicate the swath of destruction Loki has wreaked on the landscape. Sinmara tilts her head thoughtfully but her glittering eyes never leave Thor’s face.

“You do not understand, Odinson. Lævatein is not merely a weapon, but a part of Loki himself, crafted from his life-blood and the very core of his magic. I could no more keep it from him than I could keep Mjolnir from you. What I swore to the Allfather was to keep it from the hands of those who would use that bond to do harm to him.”

Sinmara takes a step forward, and then another, until she stands directly in front of him. Thor can feel the heat radiating from her body like the breath of a furnace, even in this fierce desert. He knows that if she were to touch him in anger, however lightly, she is capable of anything from searing his skin to melting the flesh from his bones.

Thor is pouring with sweat and has to tilt his head uncomfortably far back to meet her gaze, but he forces himself to do so, for he knows that the _eldjotnar_ have no patience for weakness and respect only strength.

“And what is in your heart, Thunderer?” she asks, and the flames leap higher on her obsidian skin. “Do you intend to do him harm?”

“No,” he answers, and he means it, for although they will almost certainly come to blows again, it is not the desire to harm that moves him.

“Then what do you intend to do to him?”

“Save him,” he answers, without having to think about it, and Sinmara lets out a sharp bark of laughter, the sound echoing in the vast emptiness.

“And if he does not want to be saved?” she asks, eyes narrowing. “If he does not think himself in need of saving, and least of all by you?”

“Then I will keep Lævatein safe,” Thor replies, tightening his grip on the squirming weapon. “In the hope that in doing so, I will be keeping some part of my brother safe, and as a sign that I still have faith he will return to me someday.”

“You truly are a great fool,” Sinmara says, “just as he said you were.” The flames on her body die back, but she is still terrifying close, an overwhelmingly physical presence. “But I think there is much love and little malice in you, and since Lævatein has chosen to trust you, I will do so as well.”

“Lævatein trusts me?” Thor asks, surprised, for he can feel the staff juddering in his hands, its whine of resentment only muted by Mjolnir’s thrumming anger.

“If she did not, you would not be able to lay hands on her,” Sinmara says, and Thor feels a sudden rush of irrational joy that the damned weapon trusts him, as if it means that perhaps, somehow, Loki too trusts him still.

Sinmara steps back until Thor can breathe easily again, a distance that would allow him to evade her if she tried to strike against him. But battle is the furthest thing from Thor’s mind as he looks up into her face. This is someone who Loki trusts, at least a little, and someone who knows him better now than Thor can hope to. But this is someone who also knows what it is to love a monster, who spends every day watching over an imprisoned loved one she cannot or will not set free.

“How do you do it?” he asks, even though he knows it is an impertinent, and therefore dangerous, question. “How do you love someone whose only desire is destruction?”

Sinmara looks at him for a long moment, her expression perfectly blank, and Thor resists the urge to take Mjolnir from his belt in case he has provoked her too far. But at length she only sighs, a long, deep exhale that stirs the dust around them.

“You are so very young, aren’t you?” she says, and Thor bristles in irriation but wills himself to subside, as her tone is wistful rather than patronising. “Very few beings desire _only_ destruction. Even my beloved Surtur has other aims, further plans once he razes the realms with fire and death.”

Thor should be very interested to know exactly what these plans might be, but he holds his tongue. He is exhausted and besides, if Sinmara is willing to speak of them, then Odin will already know, and if she is not, Thor doubts that he would succeed in persuading her.

“But that is not what you are truly asking,” Sinmara continues. “You want to know if you should continue loving Loki, or if you should give him up. You want to know if he has any love left for you in his heart, or if he has cast you off entirely. You want to know how to reach him, how to bring him back to you, how to make him the person he was when you felt he loved you.”

“Yes,” Thor answers. Loki is his greatest weakness; he has never tried to hide his complicated feelings for his once-brother, and she is not the first observer – or friend, or foe – to so easily see what weighs on his heart.

“I cannot give you those answers,” Sinmara says flatly, her tone neither cruel nor kind. “And what I can tell you is not what you want to hear.”

“I would hear your words,” Thor says as humbly as he can, for he feels in sore need of wise counsel these days, from whomever will offer it to him.

“Loki is no longer the man you called brother,” she states, as certain and inexorable as time itself. “Just as you are no longer the man who trusted him without doubt. You are both changed and changing still. What you must ask now is what you want from the future.”

Thor waits, but there is no more. What kind of counsel is this? Is she telling him to give up, to let Loki go? Or to keep on fighting, to try and build a future where they will be at peace? He cannot read her expression or her intent and in truth he thinks it is not worth the effort to try. He does not understand her any better than he understands Loki.

“I…thank you,” he says politely in the end, for he has had more courtesy from her than he has any right to expect. Sinmara inclines her head slightly in acknowledgement. “Farewell,” he adds awkwardly and she nods again. She watches him leave in silence and Thor cannot say if he has shamed or proven himself in her eyes, but he feels instinctively that he has at least not made another enemy this day – though she is no ally of his.

Thor begins the slow, weary walk back to the Bifrost and Asgard. Lævatein is a heavy weight in his hand but the weapon has fallen silent, the green flame at its heart rippling sluggishly. Perhaps it is sleeping, Thor thinks, and he thinks that this is a good idea. Once he is back in Asgard and once he has recounted his latest failure to calm or restrain Loki he will take and bath and go straight to bed, where he will not have to think or feel. He is so very, very tired.

Perhaps in the morning Sinmara’s words will make more sense; perhaps his father will know of some way to use Lævatein to soothe Loki’s madness, or perhaps his mother will be able to tell him what he did wrong this time, and how he might do better the next. Soon he will return to Midgard and his friends, and will find comfort in their strength and worthy hearts. Thor has little faith, but he must have hope or he would not have the strength to continue, to defend both Asgard and Midgard and to protect those he loves.

But what Thor is certain of, in his weary heart and blood and bone, is that he will not give up. There is always time, and though he doubts and fears for Loki in these days of strife, he knows himself, and he can no more turn away from Loki than he can destroy him. For he loves Loki, regardless of whether Loki loves him or not, and will do so through all the ages of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surtur here is a mix of Norse and Marvel canon. He is a variously called a fire giant or a fire demon and looks like [this](http://images2.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20120710200417/marveldatabase/images/7/71/The_Mighty_Thor_Vol_1_21_Textless.jpg) or [this](http://spd.fotolog.com/photo/61/6/105/comix_secretfile/1274234000960_f.jpg). In Marvel canon, Surtur's sword Twilight is hidden in the Sea of Eternal Night 'beyond the realm of death', which for me must be Niflheim; it seemed logical that Surtur would therefore be bound in a Sea of Eternal Day, which is of course a dry sea, the sea of sand in Muspelheim. The idea of Surtur being bound and released occurs often as a plot device in the Thor comics, and Loki regularly has a hand in it (and in thwarting Surtur).
> 
> Muspelheim is indeed the first of the nine realms to have been created, just before Niflheim, and the interaction between the realm of fire and the realm of cold creates the other worlds. Okolnir means 'never-cold' and is actually a plain named only once in the Poetic Edda, but it seemed appropriate for Sinmara's hall since it does not have a name in the sagas. 
> 
> Sinmara is another mysteious figure in Norse mythology, but is often described as Surtr's wife, and it is she who keeps Lævatein in the chest with nine locks in the Poetic Edda. If you want a visual reference for Sinmara, the best google images could supply is [this](http://media.concreteloop.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/01/oprahg.jpg), but imagine it in obsidian, with ram's horns, a demon's tail and with fire for hair :)
> 
> Next chapter: We all of us have our particular devil who rides us and torments us, and we must give battle in the end. It has been more than a century since Thor has seen Loki. Thor is an old and tired King of Asgard and more than anything, he wishes he could see Loki once again. Happy ending and actual Thor/Loki guarenteed!


	3. We all of us have our particular devil who rides us and torments us, and we must give battle in the end

_The Future_

It has been more than a century since Thor has seen his brother.

Thor does not keep count of the days as closely as he did on Midgard, for in the Realm Eternal a day will pass in barely the blink of an eye, and the years melt seamlessly into decades and centuries. But he knows exactly how long it has been since he last faced Loki in battle, a vicious, brutal fight that left them both heavily injured. It was on Midgard, yet again, but it had been the children – or was it the grandchildren? – of his first mortal friends, and watching them pick themselves up and try to repair the damage caused by a true Asgardian battle had finally settled the matter for Thor.

Midgard had finally unified itself as one realm, one nation, and was beginning to take its place on the intergalactic and interdimensional stage. Its great warriors did not need Thor’s help any further, if they had ever truly needed it at all, and his presence there only served to draw the attention of his old, personal enemies. He would miss the quicksilver brightness of his mortal friends, but it was time to withdraw, to take up the mantle of kingship his father was eager to set down.

All through his coronation and his early reign he had been waiting for Loki’s next attack, preparing for an onslaught that never came. Once he was crowned King of Asgard Loki simply vanished, and no word or sighting of him ever came to Thor. There was nothing when Odin died, no whisper when Frigga too passed away. No sign, no effort to intervene for good or ill when Asgard faced its greatest war since the beginning times, and no challenge to his rule once peace settled on the realms.

 At first, in truth, he had been relieved. It had been hard enough living up to being King of Asgard, a ruler and not just a warrior, and he had been glad of the respite from their quarrelling. But after the wars, he had soon found that to be a King, one must have subjects and not friends, and although Sif and the Warriors Three remained faithful and true to him, he could not unburden himself to them as he had when only a Prince. He also dearly missed his old friends in the Avengers, for he would have welcomed the counsel of Steve, as a leader of men, and Tony, as an innovator, the hard-won semblance of calm Bruce maintained in all but the most necessary circumstances, the quiet determination of Natasha and Clint’s sharp eyes and sharper tongue.

But as the years of peace dragged on and on, he found he missed Loki most of all.

He was pleased, of course, that the realms were at peace, and that the bloodshed and madness were over. But in the quiet days and nights that followed he felt, for the first time, the great weight of time pressing down on him, and though he was still strong and fair in body, he felt old and drained in mind. There was no excitement, no joy in his life, and although Loki’s betrayals had always cut deep, at least in the presence of his brother and his enemy he had felt alive, had experienced life as a series of vivid, shining moments, not this endless slide of day upon unchanging day.

He misses most the days when they were not at war, when Loki was ever at his side. He remembers their adventures as wild, reckless excursions, full of uncertainty and peril, at least half of which was trying to work out what Loki would do or say next when in strange company. But it always ended well – at least for the two of them – and now, lonely, bored and utterly stagnant, Thor would give anything to see Loki again.

Ando so, tonight, rather than in his throne room or his great state chambers, Thor is to be found ambling through the palace’s lower levels. When he reaches it, Asgard’s Vault is cool and quiet. Thor has dismissed the guards and wanders alone though the treasures and terrors of the great wars he and his father have waged and won. The irony is not lost on him that as a King, he has brought more death and destruction to both Asgard’s and Midgard’s people than their enemies ever managed.

He pauses in front of the Destroyer’s cage, where instead of the Casket of Ancient Winters, Lævatein sits on an unassuming but heavily enchanted pedestal. It looks small and unimpressive compared to the enormous gauntlets, swords, stones and chests that litter the Vault, but it is Thor’s most prized trophy – or, perhaps, his dearest treasure, for it is all he has left of Loki now that their battles have faded to memory.

Thor often comes to check that the gem’s fire still loops lazily, but has not laid a hand on the sceptre itself since it was placed here. He often thinks, these days, on Sinmara’s words in Muspelheim, so long ago; that the weapon trusts him and that, like Mjolnir is to him, it is bound to Loki. He has considered, often, over the decades, reaching out to Lævatein, touching the gem and asking it to speak to Loki for him, or seeing if his touch alone would somehow be felt by him wherever he wanders.

He does not know if such a thing is possible, if it would simply have no effect at all, but this is not what has stilled his hand all this time: what he fears is that it would work, but that Loki would not respond, that the silence between them would remain unbroken and he would have no hope left at all.

But it has been so, so long and Thor is tired most of all of not knowing.

He reaches out and rests the tip of one finger on Lævatein’s heart. She warms to his touch, chattering softly at him, and he thinks it a welcome and a good sign.

“Please,” he says quietly, and Mjolnir thrums with his words, adding her plea to his. “Loki. Please.”

The green fire leaps within the gem, suddenly filling the Vault with emerald light. There is a sensation of flight, of wings beating, air rising and his heart lifts with hope, Loki is coming, surely, he is –

The light fades and Thor is alone.

He is still standing in the Vault, entirely alone, resting one finger on an old sceptre. The disappointment is crushing and for a moment he cannot breathe, cannot see. He had been so sure...Lævatein’s insistent chattering rouses his from his despair. The sceptre is vibrating in his grasp, the ribbon of flame rippling like water, living and vibrant as he remembers it from his youth. Perhaps then there is still hope, Thor thinks desperately. Who can say where Loki wanders and after all, he has been foolish enough to try and call to him from the securest, most impregnable part of Asgard. Perhaps it will take Loki time to reach the city, or perhaps Loki fears a trap and so will not come to the Vault.

He takes Lævatein from the pedestal and strides from the Vault, making for the throne room as fast as he can. He is no sorcerer, but Loki heard him, he is certain, so perhaps if he sits with the sceptre on Hliðskjálf, the power of his father’s throne will help him reach further, make his words clearer. It is the most he has had to cling to in a century and he moves with a speed and a purpose he has not had since he left the Avengers and Midgard. The palace is silent and still without the Einherjar patrolling, and the boom of the huge doors of Valaskjálf opening for him echoes in the quiet evening air.

Loki stands before the throne.

He looks – he looks well, is all Thor can think, but so different to the brother he once had and the enemy he once fought. He stills favours green and gold, but there is much more jewellery and much less armour, and his green cloak is adorned with fur and feathers and golden chains. His hair is long, almost to his waist, and the slender braids are pinned and looped with even more precious metals and gems. Instead of his old helm he wears his golden horns on an intricate band that encircles his forehead. He looks feral to Thor’s eyes, a proud and powerful _seiðmaðr_ , a sorcerer of all realms and none.

He is smiling. Thor thinks he has never looked better.

Loki raises his hand, palm up, and Lævatein shudders in Thor’s hand, whining as she strains towards her master. Thor lets her go and she flies to Loki’s hands, unfurling into the great horned staff as she does so. Her joyful chatter fills the hall as Loki closes his hand around her and rubs the pad of his thumb against the gem.

“It has taken you long enough,” Loki says affectionately, and it takes Thor a long moment to realise that Loki is speaking to him and not the staff.

“I was afraid you would not come,” he says hesitantly. The last time they spoke to each other – the last time they screamed at each other, to be accurate – was the closest they had ever come to actually killing each other. He cannot remember the last time Loki spoke to him with anything other than rage and hate dripping from his voice.

“It has been a long time,” Loki says after a moment, shrugging idly.

“Yes,” Thor agrees “I have missed you dearly,” he says after a moment and Loki smiles.

“Have you?” he asks, genuine interest in his voice.

“Yes,” Thor says simply and Loki tips his head in acknowledgement, or perhaps agreement. “Loki, I -” he continues, but Loki immediately interrupts.

“Shall we begin?”

“Begin?” Thor asks, more confused than ever. Loki’s smile broadens; he seems completely at ease.

“Fight me,” he says, almost playfully.

“No,” Thor says, heart sinking, “Loki, no, that is not what I want -”

“Yes, it is,” Loki interrupts again, and he clearly has no interest in letting Thor say his piece. The old frustration rises up within Thor: why will Loki not _listen_ to him?

But this time, Thor pauses. He looks at Loki, really looks, and forces himself to stay calm. Loki is not angry, nor taunting, nor near-hysterical, as he often was when they fought. Instead, he reminds Thor of his oldest self: he is fairly vibrating with a barely-hidden glee, his broad smile only just covering the self-satisfied smirk that means that Loki is in the midst of a secret but soon-to-be-realised plan.

Thor has been on the receiving end of Loki’s plans far too often not to recognise when one is being woven around him. He has a choice then: to go along with Loki’s prompts or to fight them. If he fights, violence is certain, and nothing broken was ever mended with violence. But if he goes along...it may still end in violence, but equally it may not, and the uncertainty is the most delicious anticipation he has felt for decades. This is what he has missed.

“Very well,” he allows. He deliberately places Mjolnir on the ground and reaches up to unclasp his cloak and his heavy ceremonial armour. He steps forward in only his undertunic and trousers, his palms spread wide, and Loki’s surprise is reward enough for whatever may follow.

Loki plants Lævatein squarely in front of him, and for a moment Thor thinks he has truly miscalculated, that Loki means to unleash the staff’s destructive power against him. The rush of fear and adrenalin is immensely exciting, but this is not Loki’s plan, for instead the staff contracts until it is smaller than Thor has ever seen it, barely a wand, and cradles the gem in between his palms. The gem writhes and swells, the green light flaring, and then, in the blink of an eye, is no gem at all but a magpie, its iridescent feathers flickering with green fire as it chatters and spreads its wings.

Loki opens his hands and the bird flutters up, swiftly making a lap of the great hall before swooping towards Thor, banking at the last moment to swerve aside and land on Mjolnir, perching delicately on her broad head. A fine trick, Thor thinks, delighted, and reaches out a to the bird, who regards him with bright eyes before allowing him to gently stroke her plumage.

He is smiling himself when he meets Loki’s eyes, who responds by unfastening his own cloak and letting it drop to the floor. He spreads his hands, and gestures at himself, making a point of his own lack of weapons. Thor is a fool but not so great a fool as to trust him; Loki will have at least half a dozen small and vicious blades hidden somewhere on him and besides, as Thor has well learnt, he can summon them at will.

Loki steps closer and they begin to circle each other in their old familiar pattern, moving first closer together and then further away. Thor is not sure what Loki’s game is, so he lets him take the lead, content to shadow him and wait. Loki seems momentarily puzzled by Thor’s passiveness, but he smoothly takes control of their circling, lunging in to feint at Thor’s eyes and throat, letting Thor strike out at him before dancing away. This goes on and on, and Thor begins to wonder if this is all that will happen between them, this endless routine –

\- but then Loki does not dodge, and Thor’s fist connects with his face. It is not the hardest blow he has ever struck, not by a long measure, but he was not shadowboxing either, and Loki rocks with the impact, blood welling from his split lip.

Thor stills instantly and begins to apologise but Loki only laughs and lunges, impossibly fast, body suddenly pressed against Thor’s. Thor tries to pull back and the moment he does so Loki hooks his foot behind Thor’s calf and pulls, using Thor’s weight and initial momentum to keep him off-balance and Thor is falling back, crashing to the floor with Loki on top of him.

It takes only a few seconds and Thor is still working out what has happened when he feels a sharp pain beneath his ribs. The inevitable dagger, he thinks at first, but no, it feels strange, cold, and he realises it is an ice blade, the cold biting and painful but not actually breaking the skin. Loki’s other hand is clenched into a fist and pressed hard to the underside of Thor’s jaw. There is a creeping sensation of cold seeping from Loki’s fist into Thor’s skin and Thor knows a threat when he feels once. If Loki wishes to, he can kill Thor before he can possibly react, before Mjolnir can leap to his aid or he can call for help.

Thor is helpless beneath Loki. It is the greatest thrill he has felt in an age.

“Do it,” Thor says recklessly, chest heaving, excitement thrumming through his body. “Kill me and the throne is yours.”

“Oh, Thor,” Loki says, “I never wanted the _throne_ ,” and then he kisses him hard, the metallic taste of blood on his lips.

Thor cannot react for a moment, sheer shock keeping him still and unresponsive as his mind races. This has never occurred to him, not once in all their long lives, but feeling Loki’s body pressed again him, his lips warm and soft against his own, he cannot think why not, for it feels utterly and completely right.

He thinks of how, for all this time, he has been unable to let Loki go, even after he accepted their brotherhood was over; he remembers how often in battle and in peace he has found cause to touch Loki and keep him close; he thinks of how bitter his anger and jealousy have been every time Loki took a lover or Thor suspected he had. He thinks of Loki’s rage and how he lashed out at every mortal or Asgardian Thor has loved, and his desperation in rejecting their familial bond while insisting on their equal status.

He has been blind all this time. But Thor has ever preferred action to reflection, and even as he thinks these things he acts, surging up to return to Loki’s kiss, sliding one hand through Loki’s hair to grip the back of his neck.

He feels Loki smiling, the curve of his lips, and then he feels him roll his hips, settling more gently into Thor’s body, the cold threat of his hands vanishing as his lower hand moves to grip his hip and the fist under his chin moves to stroke his cheek. It is wonderful to have Loki like this, gentle in Thor’s arms, but the adrenalin is still singing in his body and now he knows what he wants he wants all of it, now, wants to map and claim every inch of Loki, to make up for all their lost time as fast as he can.

He grips Loki tighter, one hand at the back of his neck and one at the small of his back and then, suddenly, rolls them over, the kiss breaking as he does so. He pins Loki beneath him and braces himself on one arm so he can push himself up and look at him properly.

Loki looks insufferably smug.

Thor wants to strip that knowing smile from Loki’s face and have him wild-eyed and begging, helpless under Thor’s hands. But as Loki smiles slyly at him he knows with a certainty that Loki wants the same, and this will be yet another battle between them, but this time one where they will collapse at the end, exhausted and sore, but happy and smiling and together. Thor thinks there will be no loser in this new conflict.

But where to start? He wants to take and take and take, and give and give and give; he wants everything, now, all at once, and yet he also wants to go lowly, to savour every moment, every first touch and taste. It is like being a callow youth all over again, racked with need and desperation and unsure how best to begin.

“Loki,” he groans, low and urgent, and it is a plea and a promise.

But as ever, Loki is two steps ahead of him, and without any of Thor’s hesitation he arches up to kiss him again, hot and wet and dirty, clever hands unlacing Thor’s tunic and peeling it away even as he bites at Thor’s lower lip. They break apart so Loki can tug the offending garment over Thor’s head and throw it aside.

Thor eyes Loki’s complicated array of fabric and decoration and decides he has no such patience. He fists both hands in Loki’s clothes and yanks, hard, the material tearing to pieces in his hand, gemstones and chains scattering across the marble floor. Loki lets him, lying still beneath him as Thor wreaks devastation upon his finery.

“Why must you wear such things?” Thor growls, ripping shirt and trousers to shreds in his hurry to bare skin.

“For the pleasure of having you destroy them,” is Loki’s lazy reply, and when Thor finally finishes, leaving him in a pile of scraps and feathers, makes a complicated hand gesture and it all vanishes, leaving them both completely naked save for their heavy cloaks, which slither across the floor and arrange themselves under him.

“Wretch,” Thor says, but without heat, as he settles between Loki’s spread legs, running his hands up all that pale flesh, hungrily taking in the sight before him.

“You wouldn’t have me any other way,” Loki says, head tipping back as Thor follows his hands with his lips, kissing a long line from Loki’s knees up to his throat, pausing to bite whenever Loki’s breath catches. It is not until Loki is whining and cursing that Thor finally turns his attention to Loki’s neglected cock, hard and leaking against his belly. He reaches out and takes it in hand, spreading the slick precome across the head with one broad thumb as Loki arches up into his grip.

“ _Thor_ ,” Loki moans, hips jerking as he tries to gain friction in Thor’s loose grip, and Thor’s patience snaps. He lifts Loki by the hips and settles him into place, lining up his own aching cock with Loki’s entrance, just letting the head rest against the tight pucker, a firm but not intrusive pressure.

“Can you -” he gasps, because he cannot wait, he simply cannot.

“Do _all_ the work?” Loki smirks and dramatically rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, but I will make you pay for this later, you lazy brute.”

“Yes, I will, gladly,” Thor manages as Loki traces intricate shapes in the air and then shudders. Thor reaches down and presses one finger between his own cock and Loki’s hole and sure enough, Loki is as open and wet as he could want, and this is one trick he is infinitely grateful for.

Loki’s legs lock around him as he sinks into his welcoming body in one smooth movement, groaning loudly at the delicious heat. He has just enough wits left to pause a moment to let Loki’s body adjust, for magic or not, Loki is wonderfully tight and he needs to catch his own breath and savour the sensation of being sheathed in Loki.

Only for a moment though and then he must move and it is incredible, it is better than he has ever known, to rock slowly into Loki and then faster, harder, Loki’s arms winding around his neck, his mouth searching for Thor’s and then they panting into each other’s mouths more than kissing. It is fast and brutal as Thor pounds into Loki and oh, it is not the most skilful coupling he has ever had but by all the realms it is surely the best, for Loki moans and sighs his name and his eyes are huge and dark and fixed on Thor’s.

Thor cannot last, does not want to last, but he is desperate to see Loki come, to have him fall apart beneath him and he reaches between them to grip Loki’s cock tightly and stroke it fast, hopelessly out of rhythm with his own furious thrusts, but Loki does not seem to care, for his moans have become full-throated cries and he clutches ever more tightly at Thor, nails raking across his skin and Thor is close, so close and then Loki’s eyes close and he screams, high and piercing as he comes, cock throbbing in Thor’s hands as his seed spills across both his and Thor’s chest and Thor follows almost immediately, a great heaving sob escaping as his climax shakes him apart and he spills inside Loki, the great rush of blinding pleasure made all the sweeter by Loki’s ragged breathing against his cheek.

They lay together, sticky and sweaty and still entwined, in the shadow of the high seat of Asgard.

“I will love you for all the ages of the world,” Thor whispers, listening to Loki’s heartbeat, steady and sure and beating in time with his own.

“Yes,” Loki replies, and Thor hears Loki’s own promise in the word, and does not doubt the truth of it, for all this time and all the ages to come.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a visual aid for feral sorcerer Loki: [click here](http://taidekollektiivi.tumblr.com/post/50677045633/loki-in-ritual-robe-by-oak-deer).  
> One more short chapter to come because I couldn't resist adding a fluffy little epilogue.


	4. Time, unmeasured by the clock, runs on into eternity

_The Far, Far Future_

It has been more than a week since Thor has seen Loki.

Thor rarely leaves Asgard these days, but Loki still likes to travel and so he acts as ambassador to the other realms in Thor’s place, using his charm to keep the easily ruffled rulers placated – or intimidating them into obedience with his power and presence, depending on his mood. As Dowager King to Asgard’s new Queen of course he commands respect and prestige, but Thor thinks it is more his old reputation as Silvertongue and sorcerer that keep the dignitaries of all the realms clamouring for his attention.

It is a source of great pride to Thor that in the space of a few decades their daughter has done more to destroy the old ways of Asgard then any of the many Ragnaroks he has faced and overcome. Their little girl has grown into a passionate and fearsome ruler, living up to the promise in her name. As Queen Þrúðr of Asgard, his darling Thorrun is overturning tradition at breakneck speed, determined to bring the new republic of the realms into being with sheer force of will. Democracy is a somewhat unusual passion for a hereditary monarch, but Thorrun spent much of her youth on Midgard and meeting with the other planets now allied with Earth, and has openly declared that she will take no official consort and intends to be the last non-elected ruler of Odin’s empire.

If she has her way she will dismantle nearly everything the Allfather built. Loki is beside himself with joy.

But the other rulers are confused and afraid, and so it falls to Thor and Loki – well, mostly Loki – to ease the way for the old guard, while the young flock to the new Queen and her fierce plans for equality and a new way. Even with Loki’s bargaining, Thor thinks at some point there will inevitably be war with someone, but he has no fear, for Thorrun has all of his strength and Loki’s cunning, and with both Midgard and Jotunheim committed to her cause she will no doubt prevail. He will fight for her, if it comes to it; although he is not the warrior he once was, Mjolnir still answers his call and even silver-haired and slow he is more than a match for most. Loki is still lithe and beautiful, although Thor suspects he relies more on glamours and magics than he will admit, and his aim and _seidr_ have not deteriorated over time.

When he was young Thor had believed as his father believed, that their world would one day end in blood and fire, and for a long time he had prepared himself for the doom of the worlds and the very real possibility that it would be Loki he would die fighting. He had never dreamed that instead time would simply carry on, that he would find himself an old man, dozing in a rose-garden, having happily given up the crown and all his duties to spend his days in peace and plenty.

It is a good retirement, for a warrior-King, and he is content to leave the business of the realm to his daughter and husband.

But he does miss Loki when he is away.

He is not alone though, as he sits in the palace gardens; Mjolnir is with him, and her weight is a comforting presence on his shoulder. The great eagle has her gaze fixed on the sky, and makes a pleased hum when Thor gently strokes her chest plumage.

It took him a long, long time to learn this trick, and Loki is not a patient teacher, but he is quietly proud that he has mastered it. True, she would not pass for a true eagle, as Lævatein does for a flesh and blood magpie, for her feathers remain metallic, and still the grey of the uru she was forged from, rather than the bronze and gold an eagle should be. But her talons are sharp and her wings broad, and she is a far more affectionate companion now that she can nuzzle with her wicked beak and call to Thor with a cry like the crack of thunder. And of course, she can become the war-hammer in seconds when she needs to be, although that is not often these days.

Suddenly, Mjolnir stiffens on his shoulder and he follows her gaze up into the gold-streaked evening sky, where two dark specks are rapidly approaching.

“Go on, then,” Thor murmurs, raising his arm, and Mjolnir hops from his shoulder to his forearm and spreads her wings, beating them furiously and launching upwards.

The specks resolve themselves into a magpie and a dark falcon and Mjolnir heads straight for Lævatein, claws outstretched as if to grab her from the sky. The magpie keeps heading steadily forward but as the eagle closes she spreads her wings wide and lifts up, sliding over the eagle’s back, using the slipstream to dodge and wheel around. Mjolnir tries to turn but soon finds herself mobbed by the smaller bird and they tumble through the sky, screaming and chattering at each other in raucous welcome.

Meanwhile, the sleek falcon slips past the pair and swoops down towards Thor, banking upwards as he nears the ground, shimmering into Loki and dropping gracefully into a crouch. He rises and lets Thor pull him into a tight hug.

“I missed you,” Thor says, holding him close as their bird-companions sweep around them.

“And I you,” Loki replies, is voice muffled, and he sounds so very weary. He is an old man too, although he is loath to admit it, and a week’s travel and diplomatic trickery is enough to exhaust him these days.

“How was Nidavellir?” Thor asks as he steers Loki to the bench, waving away the servant who has appeared at the garden’s edge. Mjolnir and Lævatein’s noisy display has alerted the palace to Loki’s return and the servants will already be preparing their suite with refreshments; from the way Loki leans into him he knows they will not sit out here for long.

“The same as it always is: noisy and tiresome,” Loki answers as they sit. “But the treaties have finally been ratified, so it was worth the effort.” He makes a pleased hum as Thor wraps an arm around him and presses a light kiss to his cheek. “Alvíss asked me again to arrange his marriage to Thorrun.”

“And what was your reply?” Thor asks, amused. Nidavellir’s king has asked Thor and Loki for Thorrun’s hand in marriage half a dozen times over the years, but has yet to find the courage to speak a word to her himself.

“That if he wished to forge an alliance with the Queen of Asgard he must treat with her direct; that if he wished to be prince-consort to Þrúðr Thorsdottir he must woo her himself; that if he wished to bed Thorrun he must plead with her in person, and that if he did not stop pestering me with his demands to get his hands on my daughter I would cut out his tongue and feed it to him.”

Thor laughs, for he has no doubt that this is exactly what Loki said to Alvíss, and he can easily picture the shocked look on the besotted dwarf’s face. Loki’s eyes are closed but he is smiling, and Thor cannot help but press another kiss to his cheek.

“Thorrun is entertaining a delegation from Svartalfheim, and says she will see you when you are ready tomorrow,” Thor says and Loki nods tiredly but makes no reply. “Time for bed,” he says fondly, for Loki is clearly exhausted.

“It is good to be home,” Loki murmurs as Thor wraps an arm around his waist and together they make their slow way back to the palace, Mjolnir and Lævatein wheeling overhead in the crimson sky.

Perhaps the true Ragnarok does still await them, one dark and blood-soaked day, or perhaps this is how their Asgard will end, in new ideas and the reforming passion of youth, or perhaps they will simply continue on forever, as time flows on into eternity: two figures walking together, bathed in the light of the rich golden sunset, arm in arm and heart in heart through all the ages of the worlds.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Þrúðr means 'strength' and is the name of Thor's daughter in Norse myth; Thorrun means 'loved by Thor' and is the name of his daughter in the Marvel comics. Thor strikes me as the type of dad to have a pet name for his little girl even when she's all grown up and tearing the world apart. In myth, Alviss the dwarf, 'all-wise', tries to woo Þrúðr but Thor is unhappy with this idea and keeps Alviss talking until the sun comes up and turns him to stone.

**Author's Note:**

> Work title from Andrew Marvell's 'To His Coy Mistress', Marvell's greatest work; chapter headings from Daphne du Maurier's _Rebecca_.


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